


Last Man In London

by Innerspace



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: All the nice girls like a soldier, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Deadly sushi, Flirting, Lestrade is tired of Sherlock's shenanigans, M/M, POV Second Person, Pre-Slash, Really sorry about that btw, Warning - Suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-15
Updated: 2014-10-15
Packaged: 2018-02-21 03:06:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2452463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Innerspace/pseuds/Innerspace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe that isn’t the Thames down there, maybe this isn’t London at all.  Maybe this is the afterlife, the Underworld, and that is the river Styx, and you have already passed over, are already on the other side.  This would be hell then, would it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Man In London

**Author's Note:**

> This came to me in a rush about a week ago while I was trying to write a postcard to my friend. Once my pen hit the paper it just kept going, and obviously I overran the character limit for your average postcard.
> 
> It starts out a little on the gloomy side, but it brightens up by the end.
> 
> Kudos, bookmarks, and especially comments will be treasured forever!

Early evening. A chill mist hangs over London, catching in the branches of the trees and clinging to the surrounding buildings. Your bad leg twinges in the damp as you walk down an endless set of stone steps lined by unlit street lamps. It’s not yet dark, but it feels later than it is because it’s so empty, this strange, steep street. Coming from the bottom of the steps, so far down you can’t see it through the fog, you think you can hear the flow of water. It seems unnaturally loud, in part due to the recent rains, in part because of the utter quiet that pervades this moment.

Empty and quiet, like another world, a world in a dream. Maybe someone else’s dream that you’ve stumbled into, in between the nightmares of your own terror-ridden sleep. It’s peaceful, quite peaceful—but eerie.

Perhaps this world is entirely empty but for you, John Watson.

You tighten your grip on your cane abruptly, catching yourself as you stumble, your leg nearly giving out altogether.

Maybe that isn’t the Thames down there, maybe this isn’t London at all. Maybe this is the afterlife, the Underworld, and that is the river Styx, and you have already passed over, are already on the other side. This would be hell then, would it? You’d always told yourself that hell (philosophically speaking, of course, an _actual_ afterlife sort of “Hell” is something in which you no longer believe) was Afghanistan, hell was a storm of shells and bullets and other people's blood draining into the sand. You’d always told yourself hell was the battlefield.

Well—but it was. Of course it was. Of course war is hell, too. And yet… which hell is worse, if you were forced to choose one to endure for eternity? The one in which at least you'd been active, had something to battle for and against? Or the one in which you find yourself now, this dull, empty existence, devoid of purpose, lacking agency, where you have nothing to strive against but your impending loss of the will to live?

The streetlights loom like impassive sentries, jailors with blank, pitiless faces, and you almost start to wonder if you _are_ the only man alive in London, the only man in the world.

Imagine. Imagine surviving that bullet on the field, the searing pain, surviving the subsequent infection, the delirium and fever, only to finally end your days like this, here in a London that no longer feels welcoming, a once-familiar city that you no longer know—sapped of your life force, at last surrendering to oblivion in the form of this unremarkable, inoffensive tedium.

Down, and down, and down the steps you go. You think again of the Thames, waiting for you at the bottom. Maybe you will stop there, for a while. Maybe you will rest there, rest your leg. Maybe you will decide to rest there for more than a while. The Thames…

Abruptly, you are struck from behind as a man clumsily runs past you, clutching a sack to his side. Spun around by the force of the impact, you see farther up the steps another man, his pursuer, still quite a ways away. Impossibly tall, impossibly graceful, with a long, black coat flapping behind him like wings, dark wings in the mist.

You think: _Like an avenging angel._

You think: _Like a bat out of hell._

“Stop him!” the black-clad man shouts, and you find yourself unthinkingly obeying. You sprint down the steps after the man who collided with you, taking two, then three steps at a time, and within half a minute you’re close enough to stretch out an arm and grab the back of his coat, sending him crashing into the pavement. Before you even realize what you’re doing, you’ve pinned the thief to the damp cobblestones, arms behind his back.

You watch as the tall man with lively eyes and untamed curls approaches. Before he does anything else, he picks up the thief’s fallen sack, peeking inside, then closing it again with a satisfied smile. “I knew it,” he says, his voice the rumble of an approaching thunderstorm. “Hired by the cousin. So that must mean the taxidermy specialist was a fake, as well… Christ knows how he thought he was going to get away with this one, even a child could see that the specimen in the museum had been replaced with a different species, one only has to consider the wingspan and relative length of the covert and primary feathers…”

“Sorry?” You blink up at him, unsure as to whether you’re meant to be following this. The struggles and whines of the perpetrator you’re still weighing down are merely background static. Then, all at once, the man’s full attention snaps to you. The force of his focus hits you with a nearly physical jolt.

For a minute you feel as if those piercing eyes have penetrated to your very core. To your soul, you might say, if you still believed in such things.

Then his formerly expressionless face melts and reanimates, as if a spring thaw has released the freeze on his snow-pale features. A generously curved mouth quirks upward at the corners, eyes like chips of glacier ice brightening as if someone has switched on a lamp behind them.

“Afghanistan, or Iraq?” he asks, and all at once you are standing in the middle of the desert without your battle gear, totally exposed. But there’s a whisper in the back of your mind— _dangerous_ —that sends a little thrill up your spine. You’ve only spoken a single word to this man, and yet he is, apparently, already in possession of your life story.

“Um, Afghanistan,” you find yourself replying almost numbly. “But—that’s amazing! How did you?...”

He squares his shoulders and puffs up his chest a bit. Like a peacock: you can almost see the feathers fanning out magnificently behind him as he struts. “For one thing, your tan lines, for another, your posture and gait… well—” glancing quickly at you and smirking, he concludes, “perhaps, suffice it to say that I recognize _military_ when I see it.” He hesitates for a moment, and even in his moment of uncertainty, his sea-glass gaze pulls you in like a whirlpool. “I also recognize competence when I see it. Which is surprisingly rarely, these days.” He chooses his words so clumsily, it takes you several seconds to realize you’ve been paid a compliment.

You think perhaps he doesn’t have much practice at paying people compliments.

Yet apparently he’s making an effort, at least, to compliment you.

Your blood is singing in your ears, your heart is pounding solidly in your chest, your breath is still panting from your mouth. Now, the foggy night seems thick with excitement, full of adventures not yet taken and evildoers waiting to be brought to justice.

You stick out your hand. “John Watson.”

The clasp of his hand around yours is like the completion of a closed circuit. You feel the buzz of energy vibrating off him in waves. “Sherlock Holmes,” he replies, and on some level you already know it’s a name that’ll stick with you for decades to come.

Footsteps and bouncing beams of light approach from further up the stairway, and an authoritative voice shouts, “Police! Hands in the air and drop your weapons!”

You throw your hands above your head, a bit alarmed for a moment, but Sherlock merely inclines his head toward the rather haggard yet stern-looking man with thick grey hair. Speaking to you, and indicating the policeman, Sherlock says, “Friend of mine.” Then, leaning down closer and rolling his eyes, he adds, “Well, I say ‘friend’…”

“Sherlock!” the older man exclaims. “What the bloody hell have you done to our suspect this time? This is the last fucking criminal you chase down on your own. They’ll hand my arse to me on a platter when I submit the paperwork on this mess! You’re going to help me to wrap up the loose ends on this case, or by God I’ll haul you down to the station in cuffs on assault charges to teach you a lesson, brilliant bloody deductions or no. ”

“Lestrade. Good to see that your pending divorce isn’t interfering with your professional demeanor.”

The man called Lestrade looks as if he’s about to burst a blood vessel as he turns and finally notices you. You’d lowered your arms at some point during the tirade, as the dynamic between the policeman and Sherlock became more apparent, but you’re still pinning the suspect to the pavement with your knee in his back. “And who the _fuck_ is this?” Lestrade cries, using the torch he’s carrying to gesture in your direction. “Just what we need, bleeding _witnesses.”_

Sherlock reaches his hand back towards you, and after glancing at Lestrade for a reaction, you take it and begin to rise to your feet. “Oh, John’s not a witness,” Sherlock interrupts, as a couple younger police sergeants step in to handcuff the thief. “He’s a—colleague.”

“A colleague?” Lestrade sighs loudly and puts his head in his hands. Rubbing his face, he seems to force himself to calm a bit. “Well, better him than me. Can’t imagine where you’d find a colleague, though.”

“Long story, Detective Inspector, and unfortunately it seems you’re rather busy just now. Perhaps another time.” Sherlock has started backing away, down the steps, and (again, instinctively) you follow.

All at once, the detective inspector’s calm veneer shatters again. “Hey! Not too busy to take your statement— _both_ your statements!” Lestrade seems dangerously agitated to you, but Sherlock remains calm as you both make your obvious, unhurried retreat.

“Oh, certainly that can wait until tomorrow. I think we’ll be heading out for some dinner now. John, I’m sure you’re hungry. There’s a little sushi place down the street I’ve been meaning to try, the head chef owes me a debt of gratitude after I saved his business. Though the three customers who had suffered food poisoning there had ingested a toxin found in pufferfish, I was able to prove that the source had not been improperly prepared pufferfish sushi. It had been a case of the deliberate contamination of yellowtail sushi by one of the wait staff, who, as it turned out, was having an affair with the chef’s wife. In fact, poisoning due to consumption of commercially prepared pufferfish is incredibly rare, but people do love to feel like they’re cheating death, particularly if the risk is a completely unnecessary, manufactured one.” He gives you an assessing look, then smiles slightly, apparently satisfied with his conclusions.

“You’ve… eaten poisonous sushi?” you hear yourself asking as if from a distance. Suddenly your life is a movie, maybe an action film—or is it a comedy of errors?—and it’s also evident that, in fact, you are not the star. But. Well. Sharing the screen with Sherlock, even just as a member of the supporting cast, would ensure a supply of endless excitement, you’re beginning to suspect.

“Well, not _yet,”_ Sherlock admits, with a smirk that is both self-deprecating and playful, complete with raised eyebrows. You find yourself smiling back quite easily.

“Tomorrow!” Lestrade calls down after you both. “You’ll come down to the station tomorrow or I’m going to come by your apartment on a drugs bust!”

“Rather defeats the point of a drugs bust, giving me advance warning,” Sherlock retorts.

“Drugs bust?” you repeat. Perhaps you are not at your most eloquent just now, but after all, you _have_ just come back from the dead.

“Don’t worry. At most they’ll discover my landlady’s rolling papers and, if they actually bring a sniffer dog, possibly the contents of the shaker labeled “Tarragon” in her spice rack.”

A laugh, an actual _laugh_ erupts from your mouth, surprised out of you before you can stop it. How long since anything has made you genuinely laugh? You hear a low chuckle from Sherlock at your side, and at that, the laughter building in your chest becomes completely impossible to suppress. “Shhh! We can’t giggle, it’s a crime scene!” you hiss, even as you start to giggle, yourself.

“Sir? Sir!” A woman—one of the young officers—calls from behind you, way up the stairs. Back-lit by lights from the recently arrived squad cars, she raises an arm, holding aloft… your cane. “Is this yours?”

It’s a relic from a lifetime ago. Your leg isn’t even twinging, now. In a wave of reckless confidence you call back, “No, not mine, thanks!” You can still feel the adrenaline pumping through your system, combined with endorphin rush generated by the joy of real laughter, and you know you are invincible.

The sound of the Thames becomes more distinct as you continue down the stairs, towards the cross street.

The Thames.

There it is. It looks serene now, in spite of the way it’s swelled with fresh rain. Whatever spell it had been casting on you has dissolved. After all, why would you want to leave just as things are getting exciting again?

The man striding beside you, impossibly smart, improbably thrilling, and probably dangerous, gives you another lopsided grin. “So, sushi?” he says. It’s disproportionately charming, and maybe, you cautiously admit, maybe the way your heart is still pounding isn’t _all_ down to your short sprint fifteen minutes ago.

“Ah, perhaps not the poisonous sort, though.” Your face is somewhat sore, and it occurs to you that the muscles must be struggling to get used to smiling again. You smile even more at the realization.

There’s a hint of mischief in Sherlock’s tone as he admits, “Actually… the sale of pufferfish meat is illegal in the European Union. Though doubtless Mycroft could find his way to obtaining some if the fancy ever struck him. Perhaps I should talk it up as a delicacy the next time he visits with one of his dull government cases…” Before you can even ask who Mycroft is, Sherlock has transitioned into a discourse on the effects of pufferfish poison on the human body, grinning like a madman as he throws out phrases like “tetrodotoxin paralysis” and “no known antidote” with obvious delight.

As you listen, walking along the Thames and leaving the grey, misty stretch of the stairway behind, you think: this is it, you’re heading back into battle. Who knows, really, if you’ll make it out alive this time? But the thought fills you with excitement rather than fear, and after all, why not? It seems now that maybe it’s a battle that you won’t have to fight alone.


End file.
